MANILA, Philippines - They came, almost every week, patiently waiting their turn, nursing San Mig Lights or downing rum cokes to quell the nerves. At the other tables, barong-ed patrons indicated a one-off birthday celebration or corporate gimmick, but this was the table of the familiars, the original gangsters who have seen Rockeoke grow from a quirky Monday-night gig to a pop cultural phenomenon. Not everyone popped their Rockeoke cherry right away. Some waited for the right time and the perfect song, others dove right in, born to hip-thrust, kick mic stands and live in a powder keg, giving off sparks. Being onstage was an addiction, even for the terminally shy or tone-deaf (the worse you are, the better), derived purely from the catharsis of an Alanis, the nostalgia of a Bon Jovi, the good vibes of an Eraserhead, or the thrill of debuting a totally off-kilter song, like something from Miley Cyrus. Some groupies made good: Wanggo Gallaga turned his tricks into a shtick as one of the snarky co-hosts; Carl Clemente was crowned Rockeoke Idol by sheer dint of his devotion, and the rest of us just grew overconfident when the microphone came out at weddings. As for myself, I was never under the delusion of being a great soloist, so my best memories were of sharing the stage with girl friends who have come and gone to Mag:Net over the years: Tals Diaz, Erin Peterson, Becca Rodriguez, Clara Balaguer. It was like a rite of passage — we all had our own private battles to fight, but we got to sing it out publicly at Rockeoeke. Onstage, we were all made of stars.